I want to kiss you. Not on your mouth, but on your most secret scars, your ashy black & journeyed knees, your ring finger, the trigger finger, those hands the world fears so much.
Danez Smith, “king the color of space/tower of molasses & marrow”
(via tenderblues)
It occurs to me as I fight so hard with myself that these cruel and persistent voices are the echoes of trauma from the times when people treated me like I am now treating myself. And that, perhaps, it is possible to close an inner door and shut out voices that are not mine. In the last light of a long day, I sit on a chair on my porch and watch the sky drain colors down and out and I realize I want to hear my voice and only mine. Not the voice of my voice within a cacophony of old pains. Just mine, now.
sucre didn’t mourn her parents. she wasn’t happy, exactly, when they disappeared, but she didn’t feel BAD. it meant she was free, and safe. there’s a part of her that feels guilty and monstrous for it, though; who thinks that only the kind of child that deserved what they did to her would feel so blasé about the likely death of her own parents.
they cut the boy next to you down. he has no name, and is newer than you, and braver. his blood spatters on your face, and you feel your eyes going wide, and you don’t understand why.
he didn’t have a name. you do not feel anything that he is dead but you feel something, maybe, that he died without a name.
let that be an example, the boss says. you don’t know what an example of. you know better than to ask.
---
one of the others --- they’re called trophy, you think --- offers you a hand when you fall at the end of your spar. you reach up to take it and when the knife manifests from their sleeve, aimed at your artery, you rip it easily from their fingers. it’s buried in their neck a moment later, and your eyes do not change while they gurgle around the weapon until you twist it hard and end it.
very good, beast, the boss praises. she kicks trophy’s body as she approaches you. that, you think, seems excessive. very good, beast.
---
you wake up screaming and can’t remember the dream. one of the other fodder comes to share your bed with her, and you don’t push her away. you don’t remember if she has a title. when you wake up, you separate.
you learn the next day that they killed her. you wonder if that’s your fault. you don’t feel anything.
---
shadow doesn’t kill you.
---
you don’t kill the new fodder that nearly fucked up your job. she’s young, too new. eleven, maybe. you tell her not to tell anyone, not to whisper a word to the bosses, and don’t know why. the bosses find out anyway. they strap you down and break your brain.
you still don’t kill the new fodder. the bosses do. you feel ---------
i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. I AM SO FUCKING SORRY. it should have been me. i know it should have been me.
it’s quiet. far away and unfocused. barely mumbled, slurred by the split and swelling of the child’s lip. but the man who hurt the child hears it nevertheless. he sighs, put - upon, as he carefully picks up the bloodied pole he’d beaten her with.
“you don’t have a name.”
the child is still where she lays on the ground. she shouldn’t push. she is too young to know much but she knows that. she’d done poorly this sparring match. the boss is mad at her, she knows, and that means he will hurt her more. making him angrier is ill - advised. but she wants to know.
she breathes, and her hair brushes against her cheeks when she rolls to her back, and she says, “the targets have names.”
“they’re individuals. you are not.”
“some of the others have names.”
“the other fodder have monikers for ease of reference.”
the girl swallows copper. “i want a name.”
that seems to get his attention; his head snaps up. he’s beside her prone form in an instant, standing over her. the pole slams beside her head, close enough to nearly clip her ear. she doesn’t flinch.
“you do not have a name.” voice is strange and intense. “you are not a person. do you understand?”
“yes.”
the pole jabs hard into the center of her badly - bruised chest. she lets out a choked cry of pain, eyes blowing wide. “you are not a person. do you understand?”
“yes!”
he turns, weapon twirling to rest over his shoulder. he walks away and she watches him go. lips part to ask for a name yet again, but she can’t make her mouth work. he pauses; seems to think. then looks over his shoulder at her.
“you’re called beast.”
her eyes widen. “beast?”
“because you lack respect and fight like one.”
her eyes drift to the ceiling. there’s faint awe to her voice. “beast.”
the child hears the boss let out a quiet huff and then his retreating footsteps. she’s left alone in the training room. her hands curl slowly.
“beast.”
the child --- no. beast grins, and her heart leaps.
Do not forget me. I have caused you much pain, but I love you. I have never been able to find the words that might convince you. But when you observe my life peacefully, kindly, you will believe me.
Nikos Kazantzakis, from a letter to Galatea Kazantzaki c. January 1923
(via violentwavesofemotion)
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